Howl
by eggsaladstain
Summary: The wolf knows.
1. The Sheriff

**Howl**

I.

The first time he hears the howl, he dismisses it as the product of an exhausted mind after a long day. The second time, he hopes it might be someone's pet dog. On the third howl, he grabs his jacket and sets off towards the sound. He can't remember the last time Storybrooke was this eventful.

_(_He can't remember.)

He sees the wolf first, standing in the middle of the road with a guilty look if he ever saw one. He notices the car next, then, the sign. Regina wasn't going to be too pleased about that.

The car! Her car.

Ten years ago, when he first heard a wolf's howl, an infant named Henry arrived in Storybrooke. Tonight, it is Henry's mother.

_I wonder_, _old friend_, _if this was really the best approach to making her stay._

The wolf blinks at him. _What other option did we have?_

He sighs, plucking her out of her seat and carrying her over to his car. The bruise on her temple makes him uncomfortable. He sets her in the backseat and wonders why his hands are having such a hard time letting her go. Regina really wasn't going to be too pleased about that.

The wolf lets out a short bark, tilts its head back at her car.

He makes his way over, places his hand on the hood and notes the damage. Nothing Marco can't fix.

Maybe it is the dark and the wind and the rain and the cold, but the sight of her small yellow car, damaged, there in the road, on the cusp of leaving (on the cusp of freedom), is so arresting to him that he stops.

He turns and dares himself to look beyond, into the darkness, into the world beyond Storybrooke.

He chances a step forward and is momentarily absurdly relieved to find that the world does not drop off after the town sign.

The wolf pads up next to him and nudges his leg. Duty calls. With one foot over the threshold, he turns back, clears his throat. _I'll have it towed in the morning._

He puts the key in the ignition and feels the machine roar to life. He glances behind his shoulder at the woman, so unnervingly still and silent. Vulnerable. He does not have to wonder what would have happened to her if the wolf had not alerted him. It would have been something terrible.

_Until next time, old friend_, he nods at the wolf, who returns the gesture and saunters away.

He drives excruciatingly slowly back to town, dreading the morning (and consequences and going back to normal – he wonders if things can ever be normal again now that she exists, now that she exists here).

He glances back at her and wonders how many others have tried to leave. A hollow voice from another life echoes inside his head: _no one leaves here_.

She begins to regain consciousness. He can hear her shifting behind him.

Her face is still pressed into the seat, her voice muffled. _Is it morning yet?_

He panics, ludicrously, and notes that the situation looks not unlike a kidnapping. But no, he is the sheriff (he remembers) and this is not a kidnapping and he is doing nothing wrong by pulling her back into this story. Into Storybrooke, he corrects himself.

He gathers his wits. _Not yet,_ he replies,_ go back to sleep._

She mumbles something unintelligible and falls still again. As if they have had this exchange many times before. (As if they were meant to have this exchange many more times.)

He feels something change as he approaches the town square. He feels lighter, he feels alive.

The faint prick of a long-forgotten memory.

Somewhere in the night, a wolf howls.


	2. The Amnesiac

**Howl**

II.

He stumbles through the woods, clumsily attempting to maneuver his muscles back to life. The night air is brisk and he becomes acutely aware of just how flimsy his hospital gown is. He doesn't remember how he got here. He remembers a long stretch of _nothing_, and then a soft voice reading to him, and then, the cold around his legs and the dirt underneath his feet.

His brain is screaming to go back, go back the way he came, but something else, something deeper inside of him is willing him further into the forest. He's supposed to find something, of that much he's sure. But he has no idea what it is or where it is or why he needs to find it.

Walking hurts. Breathing hurts.

He hears a rustle and stops.

He can't see worth a damn and his vision is starting to blur. The rustling gets louder and louder and closer and closer and then it stops, and a wolf saunters out from the bushes. He stares at it, his muscles refuse to move.

It feels like hours or maybe days have passed. Then, the wolf snorts and walks around him deeper into the forest.

Against his better judgment, he follows it.

And the deeper he gets into the woods, the more inexplicably familiar it gets, and he remembers long brown hair and twinkling eyes and a rock in his face. He thinks he hears laughter, a playful voice taunting him, calling him _charming_. But his name isn't _Charming_, his name is-

He can't remember. He can't remember anything except for that voice.

He continues deeper into the forest. He's supposed to find something, or maybe some_one_.

A stray branch catches his wrist, scratching him, but he barely notices the pain or the blood.

He's getting closer, he can feel it. The trees break and he sees water, then a bridge.

The bridge!

_(_He remembers a soft voice: _for it was here, in the shadow of the troll bridge, that their love was born._)

And he is here at the bridge, but there is nothing here, there is no one here, just him. He wonders if he did something wrong – maybe it's the wrong time (maybe it's the wrong place). He's out of ideas, he can't feel his feet, he's having trouble breathing.

He staggers over to the bridge and sinks to his knees.

And here, _in the shadow of the troll bridge_, he waits to be found by something, or maybe some_one_.

He closes his eyes. His last thought before the darkness claims him is of long brown hair and twinkling eyes and a soft voice.

The faint prick of a long-forgotten memory.

Somewhere in the night, a wolf howls.


	3. The Sinkhole

**Howl**

III.

The plot of land is wholly unassuming - forgettable, nonthreatening. A sterile expanse of dirt no one would ever bother to look twice at.

The wolf saunters over the threshold and sits down, pawing at the dirt in front of it. _What are you waiting for?_

Something deep beneath the surface groans. _The right moment._

Despite the night chill, the air still feels tepid – thick, hazy. The air _always_ feels hazy. A breath of heavy fog.

The moon is full, a spotlight on that long-forgotten patch of land. The wolf lays its head down, ears twitching at the sound of what lies beneath.

_It's time_, the earth rumbles.

On the other side of town in the Sheriff's office, the woman snaps the badge to her belt buckle.

_Now_.

With a monstrous explosion, the ground collapses and for a moment, it seems as if the entire world, reality itself, is shaking. The earth shifts, and something delicate breaks. Half covered by dirt, a shard of glass gleams under the moon.

A cloud of dust erupts from the sinkhole and rides the night breeze, blanketing the entire town. In the moonlight, it seems to sparkle – magical, beautiful.

From a window, the boy glimpses the puff of dust and thinks of fairies.

And the air is thick with _fairies_, and _fantasy_, and _memories_.

The residents of Storybrooke emerge from their homes in confusion and make their way out into the street. Overlapping voices ask, _what happened_?

The world stops shaking and falls still. Neighbors look at one another in uncertainty, waiting with bated breath.

No one says it, but everyone thinks: _something's changed_.

Inhale.

Exhale.

There is something different about the atmosphere.

No one suspects it, but the air they breathe is now laced with that _ethereal_ dust.

Slowly, cautiously, the residents of Storybrooke, the woman, the boy, make their way towards the sinkhole.

No one knows it, but they are really making their way towards the truth.

Inhale.

Exhale.

With each breath, dust and life and _magic_ fill their veins. When the particles settle, the air seems clearer, sharper.

The faint prick of a long-forgotten memory.

Somewhere in the night, a wolf howls.


	4. The Huntsman

**Howl**

IV.

The first time he hears the howl, he is pulling into the parking lot. The second time, it comes as they walk up the steps towards the office. On the third howl, he pulls open the door with a sigh and tells her to go ahead inside, he'll be back in just a second.

He walks back towards the parking lot. The wolf is nowhere to be seen, and he briefly considers whistling, but then he remembers that whistling is for _dogs_ and other pets, not wolves. A small part of him is insulted that the idea even came to mind.

He is just about to go inside when he hears a rustle from the right. The wolf emerges from the bushes and slowly pads up to his side.

_Well hello again, old friend_, he murmurs.

It blinks up at him slowly, and that old familiar feeling creeps up again. He knows this wolf and it knows him, but he can't quite remember how or why or when.

(He can't remember, but he is starting to.)

He leans down and gently pats it on the head.

_Thank you_, he whispers, _thank you_. Because it was this wolf who led him to the cemetery, where he finally broke free, where everything changed, and it was this wolf who stirred in him those dreams, those faint memories.

He gives it one last stroke of the head and straightens up, turns to go.

The wolf blinks up at him and lets out a short bark.

It almost sounds like a warning.

He shoots it one final glance, then makes his way into the office. He smiles at the sight of her rummaging through the first aid kit and feels a warmth bloom in his chest. He has never felt this before, but he likes it, and with her here, he is sure he will never go another day without this feeling.

He could get lost in this feeling, and he does.

He doesn't know that in another part of town, a small chest has been opened and a heart, _his_ heart, gleams in the darkness.

He continues walking into his office, unaware that every step he takes brings him closer to the end.

He doesn't know, but the wolf knows.

Outside the building, under the light of the moon, it pads up to the door and scratches at it, whining softly.

But it's too late, it's too late, and the story has already been written – a thud from inside, a heart that stops beating, a woman's wail.

Moments earlier, a kiss.

The faint prick of a long-forgotten memory.

Somewhere in the night, a wolf howls.


	5. The Wolf

**Howl**

V.

The wolf _knows_.

The wolf knows _everything_ and because of this knowledge, it hides. From her.

The wolf knows her, it knows her cruel gaze, her harsh voice, it knows how heartless she can be.

She looks different here, but underneath her smile, she smells the same.

In another life, the wolf's friend and brother, the huntsman, made a deal with her. In exchange for his services, she would protect them, the rest of their kind, the rest of the wolves. He was a good man, the huntsman, but he did not keep his end of the deal.

And she did not keep her end either.

To punish him, she hunted them down, the wolves, and slaughtered them, as many as she could find. She hunted them down, sometimes with arrows, sometimes with knives, sometimes with nothing more than her bare hands.

Their hearts, she kept. She always keeps the hearts.

She placed them in boxes, along with his, and mounted them to her wall.

In this new life, the wall remains. The wolf knows so because it can hear it, its heart, and the huntsman's heart, and the hearts of the rest of their family. Beating softly, urgently.

And in this new life, no one else knows, so it is up to the wolf to remind them, to help them remember.

It is time they all got their hearts back.

It is time they fought back.

It is time to stop hiding.

At night, the wolf howls and hopes that she hears. And she does hear and she remembers, and sometimes, the wolf can even smell her fear.

And she should fear – wolves are not creatures that should be taken lightly.

She should fear, because what she doesn't know is that with each howl, another piece of her curse chips away.

They are all stirring, the people, their hearts. At night, they dream of magic and different lives and wake up, startled, with throbbing heads and pinched necks.

The faint prick of a long-forgotten memory.

Somewhere in the night, a wolf howls.

_Fin_


End file.
